"A name given in trust is a chain of silver.
A name taken in cruelty is a shackle of iron."
— Archives of the First Circles
Sleep did not come gently.
Sephanie's dreams were jagged things, filled with shadows that stretched like claws. The ceremony's echo still lingered in her bones: the cold stone, the circle of children, the voice declaring her name as though it had been branded on her soul. She tried to run in the dream, but the shadows chased her, wrapped around her throat—
And then warmth.
A brush at her shoulder, as though a small creature had pressed its head against her. The shadows scattered. Sephanie gasped awake, not fully in her body, caught between dream and waking. A presence lingered, silent, patient.
She felt it before she understood it—soft, feline, curling at the edges of her thoughts.
The touch asked for something, not with words, but with a yearning that pulsed like a heartbeat. A name.
Her mind reached back, desperate to answer. She remembered a story her mother once told her at the fireside: of the fairy queen who defied evil, shining with stubborn courage. The queen's name was Linette.
"Linette," Sephanie whispered into the dark. The presence pressed closer, as though curling in delight around the name, sealing itself to her with quiet triumph.
She had given it form. And it had given her peace.
The days that followed took on rhythm.
Morning brought drills of magic under Professor Staples. He was patient in his sharp way, forcing precision, making them repeat each spell until it was clean. Sephanie's spark answered, sometimes sluggish, sometimes sharp, but never silent. The presence—Linette now—seemed to hum along with each attempt, like a cat flicking its tail in rhythm with her progress.
At first, Sephanie faltered. Words caught in her throat like thorns, her voice too weak to bear the spell. But one morning, with the whole class chanting in unison, she forced the sound out. Her light flared on the second try, steady and whole.
Professor Staples gave her a reserved nod. No fanfare, just a flicker of pride in his eyes. It was enough. Linette purred against her ribs, warm with approval.
Later, they were tested in pairs. The task: to hold a weighted object aloft, their combined magic measured against the weight. Sephanie was paired with Kris. At first, silence stretched between them—two quiet souls uncertain of each other. But when they lifted the weight, their spell locked seamlessly together. The object floated steady, stronger than the others'.
They didn't cheer. They didn't need to. A shared glance, a small, fleeting smile, and it was enough. A bud of friendship, silent but certain.
At lunch, they began to sit together. A rhythm formed: Sephanie with Kris, Melinda hovering close when she was allowed, Melissa's sharp comments thrown like stones across the table. But the words began to land softer, dulled by Sephanie's growing confidence—and by Linette's sharp-edged disdain curling like claws in the back of her mind.
One afternoon, as they gathered for lessons, Sephanie noticed someone new standing beside Professor Staples. He was tall, posture sharp as a blade, with an expression that carried the weight of pride more than warmth. Staples introduced him simply: Professor Gerard.
From the beginning, his presence shifted the air. The students of the advanced class were handled with no gentleness. Gerard demanded, corrected, and dismissed in equal measure. His pride was sharp, his standards sharper. Sephanie bristled once, words tumbling clumsy from her mouth, earning a hot flush of embarrassment. Linette snapped silently within her mind, a hiss aimed at Melissa's quiet laughter.
Before Sephanie could recover, the moment ended—the class pressed on. But the sting lingered.
As the students filed toward their next lesson, Melissa drew close, her voice low and cutting. "Keep stumbling like that and they'll send you back to the beginner's class where you belong."
Heat flooded Sephanie's cheeks. "At least I—" The words caught, stumbling over themselves, faltering in her throat. Melissa's smirk widened.
Linette's voice slashed through her thoughts, sharp as claws: Pathetic little viper. Hiss all you like. You won't draw blood here.
Sephanie's lips pressed tight. She couldn't answer Melissa—not cleanly, not yet. But her silence no longer felt like surrender.
Before Melissa could press further, the call for class broke across the courtyard. The students scattered, and in that moment Sephanie caught sight of something at the edge of her vision: the Warden, speaking with Melinda.
She couldn't hear their words, but she saw enough. Melinda stood stiff, hands folded before her. The Warden leaned too close, his smile warm in a way that rang false. For the briefest instant, Melinda flinched before turning her gaze away.
Then the moment was gone. The current of students swept Sephanie forward, leaving unease coiled in her chest.
Physical training was no less harsh.
The Warden arrived late, strolling into the yard with his usual grin. He tossed out a joke about "teaching an unruly maid her place." Sephanie's stomach turned cold, though no one spoke.
He clapped his hands for order. They ran until their lungs burned, dropped for push-ups until their arms shook, held stances until sweat stung their eyes. The Warden paced among them, correcting with sharp words, laughing at their pain.
And then it happened.
A boy faltered, dropping too soon from a stance. The Warden moved without warning. One swift strike—hard, casual, merciless—sent the student crumpling to the dirt. The sound of the blow echoed through the yard, silencing even the crows above.
No one dared move.
The Warden only smiled, as though nothing at all had happened, and barked for them to continue.
When the day finally ended, Sephanie spotted Melinda waiting at the edge of the training yard. Relief warmed her chest—but it curdled when the Warden waved from the center of the field, grinning at the maid as though greeting an old friend. Melinda froze. For the smallest breath, Sephanie thought she saw her flinch before she lowered her gaze.
That night at dinner, the tension spilled wider.
Melissa leaned close to Kris, her voice sharp and sugar-sweet. "Careful, Kris, if you sit too close she'll drag you down with her. You'll both be tripping over words before long."
Kris's shoulders tightened, but he stayed silent.
The words burned in Sephanie's ears. Her hand slammed against the table before she thought better of it, the sharp crack carrying across the dining hall. Heads turned.
Melissa's smirk deepened, victorious—until Sephanie noticed one of the professors' eyes fixed sharply on her. Heat flooded her face. She dropped back into her seat, fists balled, forcing herself small.
The moment passed, but Linette coiled in her chest, whispering with a hiss of approval: At last, claws.
Sephanie said nothing as Melinda guided her back. But that night, after the routine of care and quiet conversation, she gathered her courage.
"Melinda… the Warden—" Sephanie hesitated, the words breaking apart before they were whole.
The maid's smile was steady, but her eyes were tired. "I used to know him," she said softly. "But he has changed."
Sephanie didn't ask more. She only nodded, the silence between them heavy. Later, when sleep pulled her under, Linette curled tight around her dreams.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
My little room was still, the kind of stillness that pressed against my ears until I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat. The sheets felt too tight around me. The air too close.
Kris hitting the ground.
Melinda's bruised face.
The Warden's hand, closing around her arm like a shackle.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, but it only made the images sharper.
Something inside me cracked. Not loud, not visible — just a hairline fracture that widened each time I remembered the sound of Kris's cough. The way Melinda looked away from me.
The Warden's laugh.
I hated that laugh.
Linette stirred with me, her warmth no longer comforting but searing, licking like fire up my arms. I curled tighter under the blanket, praying no one could hear the shallow hiss of my breath through the thin walls.
Tomorrow would come. Training would come. The Warden's shadow would fall over us all again.
But as I lay awake, staring at the black ceiling, I realized something with cold certainty:
One day, I wouldn't just cower.
One day, I would stop him.
And when that day came, there would be no turning back.